Blood, sweat and tears

The government spent yesterday forcing through what amounts to an amnesty for Northern Ireland terrorists who committed crimes before 1998 and who have never been banged up. The bill, a quid pro quo for IRA disarmament, is loathed by every party in the Commons except Labour, and by every party in Northern Ireland except Sinn Féin, many of whose supporters will benefit from its kindly terms.

What ministers would like to say is, "look, we know it's hateful, and a lot of vile homicidal maniacs will be able to come home, but it will probably save lives in the long run, so it's worth it."

But that would be much too bald. Instead they adopted a hand-wringing near-despair at what they were obliged to do.

Tony Blair said he "totally understood the pain and anguish" of the victims' families.

He hoped they would understand that this was something that had to be dealt with.

The place went berserk. "No, no!" they shouted, "shame on you!"

It sounded weirdly old-fashioned, how the Commons is meant to sound in television dramas, but almost never does.

Poor Peter Hain, the Ulster secretary, had to launch the bill in the Commons. He really had no response except to say that the legislation would be "hard to bear" and that introducing the bill hurt him as much as it must hurt the victims.

"We are all in the same boat," he said at one point, a remark greeted with catcalls and jeers. "No you're not!" they yelled at him.

He kept repeating that he hoped the bill would bring "closure", a term which is psycho-babble for "peace of mind". DUP members, who sat in a long and furious line, like wasps waiting for the picnic, were enraged. There could be no "closure" for people who had lost their loved ones, often in horrifying circumstances. It turned out that Mr Hain meant that there would now be "closure" of the IRA's campaign of violence, or "an ending" as we say in English.

So the DUP became even angrier: "This is an offensive and nauseating bill," barked Nigel Dodds. (The DUP case would have been even stronger if they had accepted that some of the worst atrocities were committed by Protestants. But they never quite managed that.) Worse, much worse, was to follow for Mr Hain.

William McCrea, the DUP member for South Antrim, stood up and said very softly: "I stood in the mortuary and looked in the face, or part of the face, of my cousin, 21 years of age, engaged to be married that day.

"I then asked to see my other cousin, aged 16, her brother, blown up by the IRA. He wasn't on a table. There wasn't enough to put on a table."

At this point, and without warning, Mr McCrea began to sob. "His remains were lying on the floor."

Here he choked up, and after a long pause pleaded: "I ask the secretary of state to tell me: am I to bury justice to appease murderers?"

I have never seen anyone cry in the House of Commons before. It was a moment that was somehow deeply moving and slightly embarrassing at the same time.

The correct response was, of course, "we are doing this so that other people will not have to suffer what you went through," but that's not allowed, and Mr Hain was reduced to sincere flannel.

The other emotional speech came from Lembit Opik, the Liberal Democrats' spokesman, whose greatly loved brother, a Belfast man, died suddenly from an unknown cause on Monday, aged 37.

Mr Opik somehow managed to be wise and funny through his grief: "My brother would have wanted me to be here, not least because to be mentioned in the Commons by name would have appealed to his vanity."

But how was it, he asked, that Tony Blair had fought to lock up terrorist suspects for 90 days, on the very day he had tabled this bill, which would allow real terrorists to come home without even the threat of imprisonment? Answer came there none.